But I remember the emptiness into which he folded, impenetrable to teachers and friends, his railing mother’s screams locked out, that locked him in: the shame of growing up no father to tell him how, his personality a shrunken thing.

Long drooping hand trumpet balanced in its slender clasp, gold braided bandsman’s tunic, pale face and wilderness eyes, all parodies of promise lost in a thin falsetto.

Boy that never really aged I killed you, your dreams and aspirations, fought for you but failed, and ran, and never saw you die